


Ancestors: The Harborer

by perfectpineappleeater



Series: Lutecestuck [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Brainwashing, Conditioning, Deaths, F/F, F/M, Fire, M/M, Multi, creepy physicians, lots of OCs p much, not as depressing as it sounds, quadrants happen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 14:44:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/812748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectpineappleeater/pseuds/perfectpineappleeater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a chronicle of my fantroll's ancestors, just because I love them more than my actual fantrolls.<br/>The Harborer used to be the Waifling, and then she became the Maréchal's pawn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ancestors: The Harborer

The troll winces as a needle is inserted into her wrist, a doctor’s hands readying intravenous painkillers. Another set of hands gently spreads a dark cooling lotion across extensive burns on her back.  


She’s lying on her front, sharp stabs of pan giving way to a soupy feeling. Speech is still not really an option, though she is quite clearly awake.  


“You may call me the Fisicien, dear,” the owner of the first set of hands announces.  


“And I, the Aesthete. It would be greatly useful to us,” the second continues.  


“If you would give us something to call _you_.” The first adds.  


“After all, there’s naught left of your hive after the fire.” The second chimes in again.  


The girl blinks. She was really hoping that hadn’t actually happened, despite her being very clearly treated for her injuries from it. “Where’s the Mameluke?” She still had hope, at least, that _that_ hadn’t happened.  


“Dead.” The Aesthete quips.  


“We would understand if you don’t remember.” The Fisicien adds.  


“Or don’t want to believe.”  


“After all, _you_ didn’t die in the flames.”  


“But then, your vertebral stack hadn’t been snapped.”  


“We’ve always said the Caaptain’s too brutal,”  


“For her own good,”  


“Or anyone else’s for that matter.”  


The girl lets out a single sob.  


“Is this where we apologise?” The Fisicien looked to the Aesthete.  


“I suppose so. We don’t have _all_ the time in the world.”  


“We’re still going to need a name, regardless.”  


“Come on, dear, we need something besides ‘evidentially a powerful psionic.’”  


“I am called the Harborer.”  


The Aesthete, having worked her way up from the young woman’s thighs to her shoulders with the lotion, gives said shoulders an encouraging squeeze. “Good.”  


“We will be happy to pass that on.” The Fisicien squeezes her wrist above the needle.  


“Now get some sleep.”  


“You’ll need it.”  


Abruptly, stand up to leave, the Aesthete wiping off her hands with paper tissue her partner, who is carrying her bag, pulls out.  
The Harborer sleeps.

* * *

It was sweeps ago – well, a few – that the Mameluke Witch – often simply _the_ Mameluke, for his princely status among his soldiers – had been unable to return home after an altercation with his kismesis. His life had been in danger since the imperial drone’s visit, when the blueblood he was in hate with decided there was no need for a scumblood like him anymore.  


He supposed they only still classed themselves as kismeses because the Maréchal was holding off until he found someone better.  
It didn’t quite matter to the Mameluke as long as he could continue to fight for his beliefs.  


Soon, he spied a lowblood lawn ring, the hive on the property being of Alterniasian style with almost clawed corners on the roof, one of which a large cocoon hung from.  


The hive was shuttered up. The Mameluke guessed rather confidently that the inhabitant was a waifling, abandoned by a rather unfortunate lusus. The troll would be glad for company.  


Very quickly, he was proven all too right. The girl was not only abandoned, but a tiny little thing for her eight sweeps. She seemed scared to even go near him, but as soon as he opened her up, there was nothing he could do to stop her fussing.  


One of her scarves was sacrificed – one of many pieces of clothing designed to cover every inch of a body she had no confidence in – over a newly cleaned collection of cuts and bruises.  


She fretted and shepherded him to her recuperacoon, gave him a pair of earmuffs and opted to take the sofa. She wouldn’t let him do anything.  


So the Mameluke slept.

* * *

The Fisicien and the Aesthete’s path up the Maréchal’s tower involves warning a servant to strap their guest down since she shouldn’t be moving, let alone be taken to a recuperacoon. Despite this, they reach the Maréchal’s office rather quickly.  


“Sir,” the Aesthete addresses the decorated soldier.  


“She is the Harborer.” The Fisicien goes on.  


“Fitting.” Is the amused comment from the impeccably uniformed blueblood at the desk.  


“She will be a great asset.” The male of his two most eerily indispensable employees continues.  


“If you like grief fuelled defiance." The female pipes up.  


The almost-irritated troll leans forward onto his desk. “I believe I am the psychologist here. Keep to your biological studies.”  


The genial smiles gracing the two greenblood’s faces don’t falter. “Oh, of course, sir,” the Aesthete agrees.  


“And our studies say,”  


“That when dawn comes, we sleep.”  


“Good morning, sir.” They both chime in.  


They leave, and the marshal goes back to his battle plans.  


The Maréchal doesn’t sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't even ask how the Fisicien and the Aesthete exist. Theirs is a strange side story not meant to be interesting or fully explained but that I know all of. Even if my trolls' AU is named after them.
> 
> Also yes, this is very short I just want it out.


End file.
